


the day you wake up to find

by Legendaerie



Category: Runaways (Comics), Runaways (TV 2017)
Genre: Bedsharing, F/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 12:39:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13235925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: They're never gonna be a teen romcom. That's fine. But maybe they could settle for proceeding with their relationship in a linear fashion, right?(Wrong. Of course. It's them.)





	the day you wake up to find

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moriuh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriuh/gifts).



> i dropped half this in Mori's DMs on impulse over NYE. i don't even go here but i will Fight for good hets.

Being on the run means making sacrifices for comfort. A lot of them. Sometimes they're dramatic and heroic, like saying goodbye to someone you love. And sometimes they're boring like not showering for a few days. Tonight is between the two. They're all holed up in a cheap motel with one of those flimsy wall divides between the beds to pretend there's privacy.

Probably, the staff did it so the girls wouldn't have to share beds with the guys. Irrelevant. Nico and Karolina are more likely to get up to things than anyone else, and last Gert knew they were tightly entwined on the twin bed.

On her side of the divide, it's half past two am and Chase is deeply asleep beside her. She’d fallen asleep fighting not to care, killing the butterflies in her stomach because getting flustered over sharing a mattress with a snoring, sweaty teenage boy is below her. It's the stuff of pop songs sung by skinny blonde white girls who feed into the misogynist machine of women who only want men.

But half past two am is not the time to be upset about the patriarchy. Half past two am is the time to slide her hands down the front of her sweatpants and touch herself in a half awake haze of desperation because it's been three goddamn weeks since her last orgasm. She loves her friends. She doesn't regret leaving. But she does miss the stability that came with living in a home with parents who (debatably) loved her. And sometimes - these times - she misses having a bed to herself.

Someone might call her frigid, for her opinion on orgasms and relationships in general. Their loss, really. She's just efficient with her masturbation habits - clitoral, a little rough, and most of the time silent - and choosy about who she dates. Really. It has nothing to do with the fact that the boy she chose grew up with looks and hobbies and athleticism she couldn't match and wouldn't want to anyway. That's something else to be thankful for, too. Being on the run from your old life can really bring people together, and she's starting to feel his eyes linger on her when she's in a room. It was his idea to share the bed. Probably nothing, but even the biggest trees can spring from blank soil.

She’s just starting to get going when a voice shatters her half formed fantasies.

“Gert?”

No. God no. Fuck trees, and feelings, and looks. _No_.

Gert yanks her hands out of her pants and rolls over onto her side as fast as she can and holds still. It doesn't work. It never could have. Even reality follows the rules of dramatic tension sometimes, and at least she didn't start whispering his name while she was rubbing little circles around her clit. At least she, of the two of them, can lie.

“I know you can hear me,” Chase continues, barely audible. He fidgets on the bed, probably plucks the sheets between them. “I can-- head to the bathroom if you need to finish in--”

“No,” she cut him off, face shoved into a pillow. Has to cut herself off from thinking about Old Lace scrambling up the wall, breaking through the window, and biting her head off - just in case she wills it into happening. “It's fine.”

“I could help.” 

Gert loads her look with enough venom he has to feel it, even in the dark. Judging by the way he shifts on the bed beside her, it works.  
  
“I know how to get a girl off, okay?” Her eyes narrow. On cue, he backtracks. “Maybe not so much in _practice_ , but I've studied. You know.” 

“That's the only thing you've studied,” she says, and it doesn't come out harsh enough because, god help her, she's considering it. She trusts him. She wants him. He brought it up, not her, and even let her tuck the extra pillow between her knees so she could sleep on her side.   
  
“Hey, biology and anatomy is important.”

Another long pause. Not a silence, because her heart is beating too loud and Chase can probably hear it too. He doesn't push her, but he doesn't back down either. Just waits, patient, trusting, familiar.   
  
“I guess,” Gert says, because if she makes it sound like a favor maybe she won't feel guilty in the morning, and eases her panties down her thighs.

He doesn't move for a second and then all at once; in the dark, in the dreamlike hour of sometime past three am Gert doesn't see him move until he's already there, beside her, pushing at her personal space bubble. She's drawn to his body from the weight on the mattress like he's got his own gravitational pull, and her stomach clenches as he traces his fingers along her body. Starting at her navel, little orbits ever expanding around familiar territory. Something he's seen before when her shirts ride up.   
  
It's pedantic and feels too much like a cheap erotic novel to call the feeling electric. But it's accurate, the way the ghost-heat of his fingers, so careful, trails down her stomach and hips to just touch her outer lips.   
  
“Oh,” he breathes, reverent as a prayer. Yeah. She didn't know how wet she was until now, either.

Being hung up or ashamed at her own perfectly human wants is absurd, so Gert lets her legs fall a little more open in invitation. The hand that claps over her eyes has nothing to do with nerves, really, and everything to do with impatience. She's thought about this for years in the abstract; in the moment it's just so much more. More everything.    
  
Chase eases a finger inside her and she's glad she's always got a hand on her face because then it's right there, ready to stifle the moan that comes out. Gert is busy trying to string together some pithy comeback for Chase's likely smart remark but for once he's quiet. Which means that she can hear the wet sounds his hand makes as he starts sliding the digit in and out of her.   
  
This time, her legs open more on their own accord.

Gert bites her tongue. He doesn't need any more praise for his talents but, god, his _hands_. Big and strong and sure against her, inside her. She's seen what they can do inside the gauntlets but here, with her, he's so careful. Another moan fights to escape, and she reaches down to play with her clit automatically.

Finally, he breaks his silence. “That's good?” and he sounds a little breathless, like he does after a good workout. Gert nods, then remembers how dark it is.   
  
“Good,” he murmurs before she can speak, and she feels him slip in a second finger.   
  
Electric, again, but if before was static shock this is like touching a cattle fence. A kick that runs through her whole body, and not even the hand she holds over her mouth can muffle the sound she makes. She doesn't really use toys, finding clitoral orgasms satisfying enough on their own most of the time, so there's that extra edge of newness on top of it all that leaves her gasping . To say nothing that it's Chase Stein knuckle deep inside her, curling his fingers to feel even bigger inside her. A fact she almost wants to forget.

She's going to have to get a bottle of water after this. She's so wet, so slick that even his thick fingers just glide in and out of her, easy as breathing. Her legs are shaking, now, fighting to close around his hand as she gets closer to orgasm. Harder to keep quiet, too, something she's never struggled with doing before when it's been just her touching herself. Maybe some other time, when they're not a thin half wall away from the others, she'd tell him how this feels. Tell him everything.   
  
His thumb strokes the backs of her fingertips where she's rubbing little circles around her clit. “Let me?” he asks, soft and a little uncertain, and she could hardly say no to that tone in daylight and fully dressed.   
  
“Yes,” and she expects him to mimic her movements, but instead feels the whole bed shift and his hand still, just for a moment. Gert is almost ready to sit up and ask what he's doing when she feels his other hand spread her apart. She has just enough time to take in a breath before something wet and hot touches her skin and for a second her heart stops, dead.

Chase Stein is going down on her and, holy shit, if she could put more than three words together she could write poetry about this moment. But she can't, because he's licking short hot stripes on top of her clit and pleasure is jolting through her like the pulses of a taser, choking her.    
  
Behind her hand, she's chanting “yes yes yes” and “please please Chase please” and he can't possibly make out what she's saying but he moans, anyway, too loud. Someone's gonna hear. She'll suffocate him with her thighs if she has to. This will not be how they're found out.   
  
“Shut up,” she hisses, reaching down to grab a handful of his hair, intending to punish him. Instead he does it again, the vibrations of his voice rippling through her body as he presses his mouth against her sex. Somehow, she can't bring herself to be that mad.

He moves against her a little faster and in the space of seconds she's back to the trembling edge again - this time her whole body fights to close in on him, lock him to her until he belongs to her alone. She could moan, she could plead. She fights to breathe, every muscle in her body tense and when Chase presses his lips against her and sucks on her clit that's it. Her eyes roll back in her head and she seizes on the sheets, all the air driven from her lungs. A small mercy. If she'd been able to catch her breath she might have screamed.   
  
Gert doesn't know why she yanks Chase up by the hair until he's half on top of her, legs tangled, arms on either side of her body. He's panting, close enough she can feel the heat of his  mouth on hers. Close enough she imagines she can feel the humidity of her on his mouth, and can hear him lick his lips.   
  
Neither of them move. The weight of all the things she ways to say, to confess, to deny, is heavy enough it seems to crush the air from her lungs.   
  
“Thanks,” she says, hoarse.   
  
Chase swallows. She lets go of his hair, lets her hand drop to the sheets.   
  
“No, uh,” he clears his throat. It does nothing to change the deep, rough pitch to his voice. “No problem.” 

Another beat. “Good night,” Gert says, as the moment slips from her fingers like the koi Chase always brags he could snatch out of her neighbor's pond. Brightly colored with deceptive promise. Leaving his fingers damp, too. Fuck, that's a little too on point.   
  
“Good night,” he echoes, and finally pulls away to lay down on his side of the mattress. He's tense, just like her, and she can feel the awkward radiating even when she rolls to her side to hide her face.   
  
Thank god he wears gloves. She's not going to be able to look at his fingers for a week.

  
  



End file.
